


The Trials of Apollo: The Forgotten Acres

by Curioser



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, RIORDAN Rick - Works, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst and Feels, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Demigod Dreams (Percy Jackson), Found Family, Friendship, Lester Papadopoulos - character - Freeform, Rick Riordan Demigod Universe | Riordanverse, post-Tyrant's Tomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 20:03:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21021485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curioser/pseuds/Curioser
Summary: When their truck breaks down on the way to New York, Apollo and Meg get a few days of downtime in a refuge called the Forgotten Acres. While there, Apollo confronts a decision he's been putting off for weeks, and finds that it's one of the hardest choices he's ever had to make.





	1. Chapter 1

**The Forgotten Acres**

“We could not have picked a better place to break down,” I told Meg—and for once, I didn’t mean it sarcastically.

Truthfully, it was a miracle that Reyna’s old truck made it as far as it did. Flying off a cliff into an Oakland Target parking lot should have reduced it to scrap metal. But according to Reyna, the truck had long benefited from tinkering by Camp Jupiter’s children of Vulcan.

The air conditioning didn’t run. The entire frame shuddered if I pushed it past 55 miles per hour. But it ran reliably until Kansas, when we had to gun it in order to outrun a horde of _venti._ (Well. Meg gunned it. I stood in the bed of the truck, shooting arrows at _venti_ and trying not to fall, while Peaches raised an army of diapered wheat brethren to fight the wind for us.)

A few hours later, Reyna’s truck wheezed its last outside a dilapidated farmhouse. Which, by a second miracle, housed a small community of demigods.

The Forgotten Acres farm was a co-op run by Kaia and Kiki Conners, twin daughters of a minor god named Aristaeus. He was a son of mine from long, long ago, and we weren’t close—his domain was bees, which was small potatoes compared with the Olympian council. This was shameful to have to admit to our hosts, but the girls—my granddaughters, I supposed, both of whom were older than Lester Papadopoulos by several years—dismissed it breezily with a shrug and a shared look. _Gods, amiright?_

As it turned out, Forgotten Acres’ mechanic was a Hephaestus girl whose specialty was farm equipment. When Marta saw our poor, faithful ride, her eyes lit up with a manic glee that bore terrifying resemblance to Leo Valdez. While she took the truck, Kiki and Kaia gave us breakfast and then promptly gave us jobs.

Day two of our stay found us armed with plastic bags and trash grabbers, walking the property’s edge and picking up garbage that had blown off the rural highway. Meg opted instead to use her grabber to try to untie my shoelaces. I swatted her grabber with mine.

“I _said, _we couldn’t have picked a better place to break down.”

She shrugged and skipped away a few steps to inspect a rusty wheel, a fossil from some prehistoric tractor. “It’s nice here. They’re nice. Even if you didn’t remember their dad was your son.”

“I have a _lot_ of children,” I said, reddening. “We didn’t see each other much on Olympus. It’s not like he was sending me Father’s Day cards or anything.”

“I bet you didn’t send _him_ any cards, either.”

“You were so much nicer to me when I had a zombie infection.”

She stuck her tongue out. Despite my irritation, I nearly smiled. Same old Meg. We may have just emerged from the Week From Actual Tartarus, but it was comforting to know some things didn’t change. Especially when recently, so many things _had._

Was it really eight days ago that we had said goodbye to Piper and Leo on the Santa Monica tarmac? A week since Jason’s funeral? Mere days since we barely survived the emperors’ onslaught against Camp Jupiter and—in my case, at any rate—nearly becoming a zombie slave to an undead Roman king?

The aches in my body told me _Yes, idiot. That definitely all happened to you, and DON’T FREAKING DO IT AGAIN. _But my brain was having trouble grasping it. I suspected it was using a built-in human safety mechanism: dealing with things in small, manageable doses as best it could.

And anyway, the changes weren’t all bad.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as Meg used her grabber to pick up a crumpled soda can.

“Throw that for me?”

Meg rolled her eyes. But she straightened and pitched it up, as high as she could. In one smooth motion, I dropped my trash grabber, drew my bow, and nocked an arrow. At the peak of the can’s arc, I let fly.

Garbage and arrow fell to earth a few yards away, the shaft poking neatly through the aluminum ring of the pull-tab.

“Hah!” I grinned. Meg picked it up and studied the can as though it were meat on a shish kebab.

“You’re getting better,” she said. “Your singing, too. You sang all the way through Colorado and didn’t even make my ears bleed.”

I bit back a similar snipe about Meg’s own vocals. She pulled the can off the arrow, put the can in my garbage bag and handed the arrow back to me.

“How long until it all comes back, do you think?”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

“How do you think it works?”

“If I had any good guesses, Meg, I wouldn’t be _in_ this situation.” I picked up the grabber again and reached for a fast food wrapper.

“It would just be nice,” she said. “If you had some of your powers back when we get to New York. When we get to the tower.”

“It would.”

I kept my voice light. We had not yet discussed what would happen after New York. The next—and possibly last—time we would face the Beast.

Something like dread curled in my stomach. Before I could think about it too hard, music suddenly blared from the pole barn that doubled as Marta’s garage.

_Pila de groseros y no pare un mamao_

_Si es mi destino brillar, yo brillo…_

“Oh, I LOVE this song!” Marta shouted over Tego Calderon’s “Mamey.” “Do you mind if I crank this?”

The Vulcan legionnaires had revived the truck’s old stereo system, but Reyna’s CD was permanently jammed in the player. Our choices had been to A.) drive in silence, B.) talk about our terrifying future growing closer with every mile, or C.) listen to Tego’s “El Que Sabe, Sabe” album approximately one hundred thousand times. We knew every word by the time we reached the Rockies.

We exchanged a look. Meg shrugged. I nodded to Marta. With a motor oil-smeared grin, she dove back into work, rapping along at the top of her lungs.

After a moment, Meg joined in, and after another, so did I. The cold feeling ebbed away in the flow of the words, dispersing in the afternoon sun. It was too nice a day to worry.

* * *

There were eight demigods at Forgotten Acres, aside from the Conner sisters. Marta was the only child of a so-called “major” deity; the others were legacies, or children of Aphaea and Cyamites and Matton. All of them were my mortal age or older, which surprised me. Usually, demigods don’t make it to their early twenties without taking refuge at one of the coastal camps, but it became quickly apparent that these young people had grown up at the farmhouse. It reminded me of Waystation in Indianapolis, but with deeper roots.

And a better social life. At night there were tamales, followed by hours of video and board games. I failed spectacularly at _Guitar Hero _(which the Acres’ demigods found hilarious) but later redeemed myself at the singalong around the nightly bonfire. I played a borrowed, battered guitar that took nearly an hour to tune properly. Marta played a harmonica, and Sebastián joined in with a lively fiddle.

I’d forgotten how good it was to play with others. How much fun to be _part_ of something, rather than the center of attention.

Next morning, after breakfast, Kaia and Kiki tried to make us help with the beehives and laughed when we shied away. Happily at home in their domain, they didn’t even wear bee suits as they pulled frames from the hives to drain the honey. The honey bees were fat, bumbling, and peaceful, but up close they reminded me a little too much of Trophonius.

Instead, we tied pieces of bright tin to the branches of the plum trees to ward birds away from the tiny fruits. The orchard was in full spring bloom. My plant-loving master walked through the orchard with an extra spring in her step, the rhinestones of her glasses agleam. Peaches did nothing to help, shredding flowering branches as though the rival fruit had insulted his mother.

Even the senseless, fruit-based violence couldn’t spoil the scene’s beauty. I wondered idly if the orchard had any dryads and what they might look like, then blushed so furiously I had to take a walk so no one would notice.

“You know what?” I said when I returned. Meg had found a stray plum sapling in the middle of the avenue between rows. Under her concentrated glare, the little branches quivered and stretched up centimeter by centimeter. Meg grunted to indicate she had heard me.

“I haven’t had a single bad dream since we got here.”

She abandoned the tree to blink at me as the significance sank in.

“I haven’t either,” she said slowly.

“You two sound so surprised.” A few trees away, Kaia tied off a tin piece with a neat bow. “Are bad dreams normally a thing for you?”

Meg and I glanced at each other. We had never met any half-blood who wasn’t constantly plagued by portentous nightmares.

“Something like that,” I said finally.

“What about?”

_Psychopath emperors, giant snakes, angry rivers and dead friends. _

“Clowns,” I lied.

Kaia laughed out loud.

“Okay, Pops.” They insisted on calling me _Pops, _under the mistaken belief that it was amusing. It was only a matter of time before Meg picked it up. Kaia moved on to the next tree.

“If you’re referring to bad dreams of the…divine variety,” she began, “you won’t have any here. It’s protected from outside magic. We get the occasional half-blood, mostly by accident, but we don’t get monsters. And we don’t get nightmares. It’s like the farm blocks out transmissions from the outside. We call it Forgotten Acres for a reason.”

I gaped at her. “_How?_”

“How do we stay hidden?” She shrugged. “Not sure. Whoever is in charge of it never explained. We don’t even know who it might be. But the farm is a good place for half-bloods who have no interest in getting shanghaied into doing the gods’ dirty work for them. No offense.”

I just shook my head. There was nothing I could say to that in good conscience.

“Anyway. We do our sacrifices just so we don’t accidentally piss off whoever is in charge—because we’re grateful, we really are—and we run our farm and we keep to ourselves. It’s sort of like a place for all the Hufflepuff demigods.”

“I understood that reference,” Meg piped. Kaia grinned.

“You like Harry Potter, you’d be in good company here. People who stay a full week have to let us Sort them. It’s fun. We have a quiz and a hat and everything.”

I did not understand the reference, but from context I could take a guess. This was a place for peacemakers, gardeners and growers, not fighters. For people who had rightly identified the gods’ bullshit and said _Nope, not for me._

I just couldn’t fathom which god might be responsible for letting such a place exist.

“Your truck should be ready to roll by tomorrow,” Kaia continued. “But you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. If you want to push those bad dreams off a little longer. I know you’ve got a quest—” Her eyes lingered on me. “But it looks like you’ve been going pretty hard for a while. You maybe could use the rest.”

“Thank you.” I dropped my eyes, unable to meet her kind gaze any longer. “We might consider—”

“We’re good, thanks.” Meg bounded over to me. “Lift me up so I can tie another shiny thing up there.”

“I was talking—”

“Lift me!”

That was a direct order, so with an aggravated sigh I knelt so Meg could climb onto my back. I grunted as she moved to stand on my shoulders, grabbing her ankles to steady her while she reached for a high branch. “Careful, Meg. I didn’t get my healing powers back if you break a leg.”

“I’ve got it.” She tied off her string and then kicked off my shoulders, backflipping neatly into the grass. With an oddly defiant look at Kaia, she skipped off to find Peaches.

“Sorry about her,” I said sheepishly. “Her people skills are somewhat lacking.”

“It’s fine.” Kaia didn’t seem put off by small things with sharp stingers. “She’s cute. You seem like you make a good team.”

* * *

“What was that about?” I asked later.

It was mid-afternoon. Chores complete, we had retreated to the edge of the orchard closest to the beehives. The quiet drone of the hive matched perfectly with the easy breeze and the warble of a mockingbird. I noodled a tune on the borrowed guitar, idly trying to capture the peace of the afternoon. Meg sprouted apple seeds from the leftover cores of our picnic lunch, as though to prove she could.

“What was what?”

“With Kaia, earlier.” Between the bow and the guitar strings, Lester’s untested fingers were developing calluses. I found that I didn’t mind. “She was offering to let us stay.”

“We don’t need to stay. We’ve got places to be.”

“Just a few days.”

“Nope.”

“Are you in that much of a hurry to get to New York?”

She gave me a hard look. Her rhinestones glinted. “Aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer. That dark twist of unease was back in my stomach. I wasn’t ready to confront it yet. Instead, I studied my own fingers as they played. The guitar needed new strings.

“You’ve been talking about getting all goddy again ever since I met you,” she said. “Don’t you want your powers back?”

“Of course I do.”

“There you go, then.” She turned her gardening prowess onto a nearby bean patch, which exploded with pods. “The sooner we go, the sooner you get your powers, the sooner all this is over.”

_All this _meant Nero. I didn’t have to ask. She always got a certain tone in her voice when she spoke of him.

I stopped playing for a beat. A gentle breeze tossed the plum branches, scattering blossoms. Light and shadow raced across the top of the tall grass. A whole genre of poetry, called the _idyll_, had been devoted to scenes like this. In the branches above me, Peaches snored.

“It’s just been…” I waved my hand uselessly at the fields around us.

“Normal.”

I blinked at her, surprised. “You consider this normal?”

“Yup.” She _flumped _down beside me, like she was trying to create a snow angel in the grass.

“I thought normal for demigods was running from monsters and almost dying. You all complain about it. Like, all the time.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Meg blew a piece of hair off her face. “Nothing bad has happened for three whole days. Nothing is trying to kill us right now. This is what normal is like.”

Meg seemed pensive—as though, instead of looking forward as we had been doing for so long, she was looking _back._ Far back. It had been a long time since nothing bad had happened in the life of young Meg McCaffrey.

My hand returned to the strings, plucking softly.

“Tell me about normal.”

She turned her head to squint at me. I pretended not to notice.

“Why?”

“Nothing about my human experience has been _normal. _I’m curious. Humor me.”

She glared. “I _know_ what you’re doing.”

I hummed noncommittally. After nearly five months, I was starting to figure Meg out. She was contrary as a raven: if you wanted her to do anything, you had to feign indifference.

After a few more minutes of glaring, Meg started talking.

She told stories—disjointed, meandering stories, free associating between the happiest parts of her childhood. Planting her very first bulbs with her father, Phillip. Dancing around the apartment to the music from his old-fashioned record player. Baking cookies and watching Saturday morning cartoons. Wildflowers perpetually outside her window, which she suspected now were a gift from her mother. The mundane, everyday moments that made up a human life.

As she talked, I composed. My hands reacted as though guided by a current as her stories washed over me. The melody came easily; I just matched it to what Meg was saying, changing keys as she changed her tone, letting her guide the music.

And, gradually, she shifted. She talked about singalongs at Camp Half-Blood and cutting vegetables at the Waystation, coffee and muffins at Bombilo’s coffee shop. Singing with me all the way through Colorado even though we were both thoroughly sick of Tego Calderón, and demanding that I tell her the real meaning of the Spanish swear words I had refused to translate for her.

My vision blurred. Meg’s affection, rare as it was, always made me emotional. Instead of trying to hide it, I poured it into the song, sending my love right back to her.

Meg stopped talking long before I stopped playing, but eventually my hands grew leaden. I strummed a final chord to finish the song. As my wrist fell, a wave of exhaustion rolled over me.

“Whoa,” I muttered, blinking black spots out of my vision. My head felt very heavy, as did my eyelids.

Meg stared at me.

“You were glowing,” she said.

I looked down at my fingers. It was faint, washed out by the afternoon light, but I could just barely make out a golden aura. It was like I’d dipped my hand in Go-Glo paint.

“Huh.” I wiggled my fingers experimentally, watching as the light faded. “That’s new.”

“Does it mean…you’re almost a god again?”

“I don’t…think so?” I yawned so wide that my jaw cracked. I hadn’t _meant_ to tap into my godly powers while playing, but clearly I’d reached some reserve I didn’t know I had. And clearly, pulling on those reserves as Lester was still enough to exhaust me.

The tree at my back suddenly felt very comfortable. I let my head fall back. The light glowed warm through my eyelids.

“Think I need a nap,” I murmured.

Dimly, I felt Meg loosen my left hand from the fret board and gently pull the guitar off my lap. Then pressure along my side as she curled up next to me, wriggling so that she was nestled with her shoulder in my armpit and her head on my chest.

“Was that song for me?”

“Mmm.”

“Could you play it again?”

“Think so. Later.”

“Could you teach me to play it?”

I was so tired, but I managed a quiet laugh. “On what?”

“I dunno.” She pushed at me, like a pillow she was morphing into the right shape. “You said you’d give me piano lessons.”

“Oh. Right.” _Gods,_ I was sleepy.

“You’re teaching me to play it on the piano,” she said firmly. “When this is over. That’s an order.”

I don’t know if I managed a reply before I fell asleep.

* * *

It felt like I slept for hours. But when I opened my eyes again, the shadows only seemed a little longer than they had been when I nodded off.

Meg snored softly into my shirt. I didn’t want to move and wake her. In fact, I didn’t want to move at all. The warm afternoon, the gentle breeze, the drone of the bees in the blossoms above me had lulled me into a peace I didn’t know I could feel as a mortal. The last time I’d been this relaxed, I had been on the Isle of the Lotus Eaters before they rebranded as a casino. Everything felt dreamlike, and slow, and…good.

_It’s not so bad,_ said my brain, unbidden. _Being mortal. If there are days like this. _

My fingers tingled. What had Meg been saying before I fell asleep?

_Piano lessons. When this is over._

Piano was easy enough to learn, but it took mortals years and years to really hone their playing. I imagined Meg at Camp Half-Blood, twelve years old (or maybe thirteen? When was her birthday? I should ask.), pounding away on an old upright and sending fellow campers running for mercy. Then Meg at fifteen, poring over sheet music as her hands coaxed Mozart and Chopin from a petite grand.

Maybe, at eighteen, she would follow Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase to New Rome University to study music. Maybe she would settle in New Rome, near Hazel and Frank.

And maybe…

I pictured myself busking on a New Rome street corner. Picking Meg up after class and walking back to Bombilo’s, her arms full of books, my ukulele over my shoulder. Playing music with her, when she got good enough. Talking with her and Lavinia over dinner in the legionnaires’ mess hall.

Something nice. Something _normal. _

I let my mind drift with the bees.

I’m not sure how long I sat like that before I became aware that someone had moved into my field of vision. A woman with a wicker basket waded through the knee-high grass, her back to me. She wore a long cotton dress and an apron, the strings of which were tied into a smart bow at her waist. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat atop thick hair bound into a long, loose braid. It glowed like honey in the light as she bent over the grass, which had burst into a riot of colorful flowers.

Familiarity tickled at the back of my mind. I blinked, trying to place her in my memory. Then she turned, and two things became clear.

One: I was definitely dreaming. And two: My aunt had come to visit.

“Demeter?”

She smiled. “Hello, Apollo.”

The form she had chosen for this visit was very like her immortal appearance: A bigger, beautiful woman, with strong arms and full hips and a sun-kissed face. The basket on her arm was full of wildflowers. Nothing in her features looked like Meg, but everything in her bearing did. Her eyes were green, and kind.

I studied her warily. My mortal memory was faulty, but I was quite certain we had not been on good terms the last time we’d met.

“Are you here for Meg?”

“No. Please, do not wake her.” Regret passed over her face like a wave in a field. “I have kept this place hidden from Zeus for so long. Nevertheless, I don’t have much time. I must speak with you, nephew.”

Conflicting emotions crashed in me. How many times since I fell to earth had I begged for a sign, for _any_ acknowledgement, from my family? The only contact I’d had was with my sister, and that had been painfully brief. Seeing Demeter was such a relief that I wanted to cry.

But she wouldn’t be risking Zeus’ wrath out of love for me. As hurtful as that was, I knew it was true.

“You have come so far,” she said. “Gone through so much. Both of you. I worried, when I pushed her your way, that you would prove a bad influence on my daughter. But you have been good for each other—with the exception of teaching her Spanish profanity.”

My heart pounded. “_You_ sent Meg to that alleyway?”

Demeter stared at her daughter so intensely that I had the urge to shield Meg from view. It was a love so yearning it teetered on hunger. It was the way I imagined my mother may have looked at me, when I could still remember what her face looked like; or the way Lupa the wolf goddess may have looked at Jason Grace.

“Nero’s plot was already underway. I merely guarded her way to ensure she met you safely. I have wanted to pull her from that…” Her face twisted. “That _monster_ since he first took her. Your punishment was unexpected, but once Zeus acted, I realized you might just be Meg’s best hope.”

“You used me.” I was too stunned to be angry. How many times had I done the same to mortal heroes and demigods? How fitting a punishment, that I should become a pawn myself to an Olympian’s scheme? I wanted to laugh. I _really_ wanted to cry.

“Be truthful,” said Demeter, her voice hard. “What would you have done, if it were one of your own children? No, do not answer.” She cut me off as I opened my mouth to reply. “You have changed much, and I am not here to debate morality with you. A choice is approaching, and you have been avoiding it. You are close to regaining your godhood. Are you certain it’s what you want?”

I stared at her. It was the third time in a week that someone had asked that question. The other two were Meg and the Arrow of Dodona. _ART THOU SURE THAT IS THY WISH?_

“Of course I do. That’s the point of all this. I get my godhood back, we defeat Nero. The closer I get, the better chance we stand in the fight.”

“That’s your reason, then? This is about defeating Nero?”

“I—well, no, not at first—but _now_—”

“And what about after?”

I couldn’t answer. Demeter watched my face with a sort of sad satisfaction.

“You have fallen in love with them,” she said gently. “But you know, once you rejoin us, Zeus will not let you return to them. It is our law. We cannot interfere.”

“I can cheat,” I croaked. This was a dream. So how on earth was I getting a lump in my throat? “We do it all the time. You’re doing it now.”

“And risk your father’s punishment? Do you think he will be lenient with you if you transgress again so soon?” She shook her head. “And how do you know you will want to return? Remember, nephew, you have been mortal before. _Twice._”

And there it was. The tight coil of dread, which I’d done such a good job of ignoring since we left Camp Jupiter, unspooled black and cold in my gut. I felt poisoned all over again.

I did want my godhood back. I wanted to help my friends, rather than relying on them to save me all the time. I wanted to support Meg as she took down her evil stepfather—and if for some reason she failed, I wanted to put an arrow between Nero’s eyes.

I wanted to overthrow Python. I wanted to be with my sister.

But I dreaded—_dreaded—_every other thing that came with being a god.

How could I go back to living in constant fear of Zeus’ fury? How could I watch my mortal friends grow up and face dangers and not be able to use my power to help them? Or even _speak_ to them? If I couldn’t use my godhood to intercede for them, what was the point?

_To be a god is the point of being a god, _said my brain. _The point is to be yourself again._

But myself—the bright, beautiful, immortal self I had been before I fell to earth—_sucked._

For four thousand years, I had been selfish and arrogant, careless and destructive. I had thrown away human lives like the garbage Meg and I had picked up on the roadside. I had been beautiful and powerful and _terrible. _

More than dying, I feared becoming that person again. That didn’t feel like _me_ anymore. I was still Apollo, but as Lester Papadopoulos, I was starting to become a version of myself that I actually wanted to be.

What happened to _that_ self—the self I was now—when Lester Papadopoulos was no more?

“It’s different this time.” I don’t know if I was trying to convince Demeter or myself. “I made a promise.”

“Oh, my dear.” She shook her head again. “We all know of your broken oaths. I’m afraid your promises don’t count for much. But…”

She waved her hand. Instantly, my eyes fogged over with visions.

We defeated Nero and Python. In a flash of gold, I regained my godhood and ascended to Olympus—as Meg looked on, weeping and alone. I saw myself on Olympus pining for my friends until the pain became too much, and I became indifferent and cold just to cope.

“Percy Jackson gave up immortality,” said Demeter’s voice. “So did your friend Calypso, and your enemy Harpocrates. The former Hunters in Indianapolis. You don’t have to take it just because it is offered to you.”

Meg’s tearful face swam into view, and my heart cracked, knowing I had been the cause of it.

“She loves you like a brother. You love her as you love Artemis. You can spare her, and yourself, this pain.”

The vision changed. We defeated Nero and Python, and…I stayed

I returned to Camp Half-Blood with Meg and rejoined the Apollo cabin. I grew alongside my children. I stayed close to Meg. I filled my life with loved ones. I grew _old—_and I didn’t mind.

A wild, terrible yearning opened up in me. I hadn’t known I wanted this until Demeter laid it out—but oh, how I _wanted._ Maybe I could defer my godhood and live just one lifetime as a human before ascending. Or maybe I could simply _die, _and never be complicit in the gods’ injustices again.

Like the residents of Forgotten Acres. The machinations of the gods were, and always had been, rotten. But I could sit it out. Refuse to participate.

But then a memory supplanted the vision: Jason Grace, his glasses glinting, his hand gripping my shoulder.

_Remember. Remember what it’s like to be human._

I whimpered. Physically, the temptation was almost too much to bear.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “Too many people have died for this. For _me._ I can’t let it have been in vain.”

My aunt’s voice was kinder than I expected. “If they died for you, don’t you think they would want you to make the best choice for yourself?”

I closed my eyes. Gods, I did not want to weep in front of Demeter, but I was powerless to stop the tears.

_Remember._

If I didn’t, who would?

“Leave,” I said. “Please. Leave me alone.”

A long silence. I kept my eyes closed, waiting for Demeter’s fury to fall on me, but it didn’t.

Meg snuffled and turned her face into my shirt. I hugged her closer and scraped up the courage to look.

The field was empty. Demeter was gone.

* * *

We left the next morning after breakfast. Marta gave us the keys with a triumphant flourish.

“I even fixed the CD player.” She spun the disc on her finger. “If you let me keep this, I’ll let you keep the guitar.”

“If we take the guitar, we won’t have any music. He can’t play while he’s driving,” said Meg, rolling her eyes. “Unless he lets _me_ drive.”

I jumped in hastily before this idea could take root. “Thank you very much. Meg, you can hold the guitar. We’ll start your music lessons early.”

She squinted at me, skeptical. But she took the guitar and swiped at the strings. The resulting noise made Peaches clamp his hands over his ears and snarl. Such would be my life for the next twelve hours.

“Sure we can’t convince you to stay, Pops?” asked Kiki, folding me into a hug.

“I’m sure. But thank you—for the truck, for the food, for—”

“Don’t sweat it.” She grinned. “Godly things to do, godly places to be. We get it.”

I forced a smile and avoided Kaia’s stare. She had been regarding me thoughtfully since yesterday, when Meg and I trudged back to the farmhouse and I skipped both dinner and the campfire. After my talk with Demeter, I had wanted to be alone.

I hadn’t told Meg about the visit. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got at Demeter for not speaking to her daughter. I was angry at myself for not insisting on it, Zeus’s rules be damned.

_One more thing to change when I get back to Olympus. _I was making a list.

Sebastián helped us carry our things to the truck. There was another round of hugs. As Meg pulled loose from Kaia, I scooped her up and spun her around.

“Put me _down_, dummy,” Meg said, squirming out of my arms. “I’m going with you, remember?”

“How could I forget?” I smiled, but a pang went through my mortal-for-now heart. There wouldn’t be many more opportunities to surprise her with hugs from here on out.

We waved as we pulled out of the gravel driveway. As soon as we hit the asphalt, I felt the Acres’ magical border fall away. If anyone was watching for us, we were back on their radar now.

“Ready to go be a god again?” Meg asked.

I adjusted the mirrors, catching a glimpse of Lester’s brown hair and blue eyes. Homely as this form was, I regretted not appreciating it more. I wouldn’t be Lester Papadopoulos for much longer. As for who I would be next…

I was still working on it. I couldn’t go back to being immortal the way I was before. And I couldn’t stay mortal and throw away my only chance to make things better. But maybe I didn’t have to do either.

An idea was starting to take shape, if I only had time to let it develop. Maybe I could make myself into something different. Something new.

“Ready,” I said, and meant it.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have fallen pretty hard for Riordan's "Trials of Apollo" series. Apollo is such an interesting proxy for discussions of privilege and responsibility and the moral uses of power. He's come so far in reckoning with the gods' awfulness that I just couldn't see him being completely okay with returning to Olympus. He's been human before, and it didn't change him in the long run, but the person he is now would find that an intolerable future to contemplate. I wanted to see him grapple with that hard truth, and I didn't want to wait for "The Tower of Nero" to do it.
> 
> Also, I love Lester so much. I couldn't resist getting into his angsty little brain for a while.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Reviews are always appreciated. If you're interested, the next chapter is an outtake from Demeter's perspective that I didn't want to keep in the main fic but liked too much to scrap completely. Enjoy!


	2. Demeter's POV

  
  
Demeter withdrew from her nephew’s dream. He would wake in a few moments, she knew, and she should not be caught with him here—but she lingered a few moments more.

How different this mortal body looked from her memories of the golden-haired child he had been. Even as a godling, the immortal equivalent of a teenager, he had been devastatingly handsome—all blinding smile and radiant good looks. As he settled, the good heart she knew he possessed became buried under that brilliant arrogance and charisma, a bulb under too much mulch.

But Demeter had always had a soft spot for him. Agriculture relied on the sun, and despite his flaws—of which there were many—one of Apollo’s best traits had always been his warmth. When he was around, her spirits lifted.

The boy in front of her looked nothing like the god she knew. He was long and gawky, teenage angles softened by baby fat. Unkempt brown curls flopped low over his acne-stippled brow. His head drooped to one side at an angle that surely could not be comfortable, and he frowned in his sleep, a single line of worry drawn between thick eyebrows.

The skin under his lashes had purpled like bruised fruit. Demeter knew his twin had purged the _euronymos_ poison from his veins, but the illness seemed to have left its mark on him. That, or the constant worry—for himself, for Meg, for the friends he kept flinging himself into danger to protect—was taking its toll on his frail human body.

There were some among the gods who found very little beautiful about mortal beings. They lived and died so quickly. But Demeter, goddess of new shoots, delicate vines and blossoms brief but lovely, had always loved fragile things.

Perhaps Apollo had lost his radiance when he lost his godhood. But the warmth this boy emanated—the warmth that had coaxed so many seedlings through the soil—was just the same. Maybe better.

Meg murmured in her sleep. She left a shiny trail of drool on Apollo’s shirt as she turned her face into his chest. Apollo’s arm tightened around her. His eyelids flickered.

If she could only keep them together. If only she could let Meg keep the closest thing to a family she’d found since her father’s death.

If only she could keep Apollo out of Zeus’s reach, for just a while longer…

Apollo blinked awake, but Demeter was already gone.


End file.
